


Let's just say you are not the destroyer

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanessa Kimball learned early on to take care with valuable things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's just say you are not the destroyer

It's Jensen who knocks at the door of Kimball's office. And it's an actual office --there's plywood nailed over the places where windows used to be and the carpet's been torn up to leave cracked grey tile in its place—but it’s an office in a building in the capital. There’s no computer, so she's still using her personal datapad, the one that came with her university scholarship and which she's babied through the proceeding years and software upgrades and gunfights. Growing up her aunt and uncle had taught her to take care of valuable things, no matter how out-of-date or banged up, and the habit has stuck.

"Come in, Katie," she says, rubbing her eyes. Behind Jensen she can see Bitters lurking in the hall, hands shoved deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched. Jensen's hair is looped back in a messy braid, and there're oil stains on her overalls and face. Her black eye is fading out to hollow yellows, the remnants of a fight with a Fed engineer the previous week. They'd both been reprimanded. Kimball's still struggling with that decision; Jensen was in the right, from what she'd heard, and her own political biases have not actually shifted at all since the ceasefire. Doyle's been dealing with the paperwork. Kimball's been dealing with the people. She does not know how long this fragile play at peacetime is going to last.

"Sorry to bother you," Jensen says. She glances back out the door like she's concerned somebody might overhear them, and it's only then that Kimball recognizes that Bitters is a lookout.

"Do you want to speak in private?" she asks gently, protective instincts flaring alongside tactical reactions.

Jensen shakes her head, laughs a little, too loud. "No, no, it's... Nothing's wrong. It's just. Agent Carolina."

Kimball arches an eyebrow. She's seen Carolina pass her door about twenty times in the last hour, and she's looked fine, if busy, each time. They'd eaten breakfast together and Carolina had cheerfully gone over the places where Kimball’s defensive air patrol plan had needed work before disappearing to put the more experienced soldiers through her rapidly-becoming-legendary drills.

"Is she alright?"

Jensen shifts from foot to foot. Kimball looks at her and thinks 'You were in the first year of your PHD and I barely graduated my BA', which seems a ridiculous thought for the circumstances but without the minute-to-minute survival drumbeat of the war in her blood she's found herself dwelling on 'could-have-beens and what-ifs' more and more.

"Oh, um, yes?" Jensen nods quickly. Up and down. "I mean, I think so? It's just... she's sort of scaring the younger soldiers. And... The older soldiers. And the civilians. And, um, everyone, actually. Possibly including George."

Kimball rubs her temples. "George is a fig tree."

"Yes."

"..George is a fig tree who survives by strangling another tree to death."

"...Agent Carolina can be very intimidating."

"What is she doing?" Kimball finishes her coffee. It's gone cold, but she has a feeling she's going to need the caffeine hit.

Jensen waves a hand vaguely. "She's... just. There."

"Lurking," Bitters calls from the hallway.

"She's very intense?" Jensen offers, Kimball's expression obviously not conveying the appropriate amount of understanding.

"Yes," Kimball agrees. "She's also been here for a month. What’s changed?"

Jensen shrugs. "Maybe she had a lot of coffee. Dr. Gray made it this morning, so none of us drank it, but nobody warned Agent Carolina. Who knows what was in it."

"Probably just coffee," Kimball says, gently chiding and definitely not glancing over at her own recently-empty cup worriedly.

Jensen bounces from foot to foot. Bitters looks on the verge of making a run for it. Kimball reminds herself that this is better than another casualty report. That this will always be better.

"I'll talk to her," she says. Jensen beams.

***

She finds Carolina pacing the lobby of their office building turned HQ. The rapid clunk of her boots echoes off the high ceiling of the atrium in steady counterpoint to the low murmur of voices from a table in the corner where Tucker is gesturing dramatically at the hunched figures that are the Land Distribution working group. Somewhere outside she can hear the faint rise and fall of Washington’s squeaky rage voice, and behind her on the lower stairwell Jensen is yelling into her communicator. She watches Carolina make three circuits of the lobby, then descends the rest of the way down the stairs and calls out quietly when she's in range.

"Carolina."

Carolina appears in front of her like she teleported herself there. She's bouncing slightly on her heels, hands clasped loosely behind her back. She hasn't got her helmet on so Kimball can see the ragged skin around her mouth where she's bitten the chapped skin raw, and the lines of tension creeping out around her eyes and across her jaw.

"You're supposed to be in a meeting."

"We finished early."

"Two hours early?"

Kimball grits her teeth, realizes she's doing it, and makes a deliberate effort to relax her jaw. "Yes."

Carolina frowns. "Vanessa--"

"I know. We both know. We're trying again tomorrow. He's bringing someone. I'd like you to be there."

Carolina's lips pull at one side into what could generously be called a smirk. "You sure about that?"

Kimball nods. "You don't have to agree with all of my policies to be a fare judge of when one or both of us is being an asshole. Also I might need your opinion on off-world arms trading."

Carolina inclines her head slightly. "I don't know a lot."

Kimball snorts. "I bet you know more than Doyle and I combined."

Carolina inclines her head. "I'll be there." She's still bouncing a bit, and her hands have fallen to her sides to tap an uneven beat against her thighs.

Kimball's brain jumps back to a familiar pattern in her childhood, and she laughs under her breath. She glances out the plastic sheets covering the front windows. Sunny, with only a few clouds far off in the distance. She grins, nods to herself.

"Come on," she says. "We're going for a drive."

Carolina grabs her helmet from a nearby table. "Where are we going?" she asks, falling automatically into military mission readiness. Kimball holds up a hand.

"Just a drive. To relax."

Carolina stares at her like she's a hopeless case, but she follows her down to the garage nonetheless. They sign out a not-too-battered old truck and Carolina makes Kimball stand back until she's certain there are no explosives wired to the engine. Kimball had considered this overly-cautious until the day Carolina had found something.

Kimball drives them out through the remains of the down town core and past the straggling outer edges of the city until there's nothing but desolate highway in front of them and thick foliage to either side. She parks on the side of the road and jumps down from the truck into the heavy humidity of early afternoon. The road is pitted and poorly maintained but it stretches out as far as the eye can see, a grey ribbon slicing merciless and lonely through the jungle. Carolina comes to stand beside her.

"Why are we out here?"

Kimball rests her back against the hot metal of the truck and breathes in the damp soil and ozone smell, feels the condensation mix with perspiration on the back of her neck and begin its lazy slide down her back. "I've been seeing a counselor," she says, staring straight ahead into the trees. "I was, a bit, before the ceasefire, but now I go every week. Sasha's good people; we joined the New Republic around the same time. One of his many suggestions is getting outside. Away from stress. People. Also exercise that isn't fighting for my life or training to fight for my life."

"So you decided to find the most exposed area with the most amount of nearby cover and the fewest number of people."

"...When you put it like that," Kimball says irritably.

"At least you didn't come alone," Carolina says. "How long are you planning this walk to be?"

Kimball shoves herself up off the side of the truck. She can already feel the fresh air and natural quiet settling her nerves, but the warmth is making her lethargic and sleepy. She swings her arms a bit, straightens her spine. "I'm walking," she says. "You're going to go run off your energy before you terrify the kids into heart attacks that we probably don't get medical coverage for anymore."

Carolina frowns. "I'm not going to leave you unprotected."

Kimball glances down at the pavement. "Look. There's no one out here. I'm wearing my armour. There've only been two assassination attempts, and those were in the first week. Nobody knows where we are, this wasn't scheduled and I took a random vehicle."

"Those are hardly adequate security measures," Carolina says, and there's a hint of gentleness under the harsh tone.

"It's as good as we're ever going to get," Kimball snaps. "I know I'm in danger. I am constantly in danger. I have been in danger for the last eight years, and if I can't walk down the road without fearing for my life then I don't see any difference between this and the war."

Carolina paces from one side of the road to the other. "Surprise," she says shortly. "That's the secret. There is no difference. Politicians, militaries, corporations. There's always a war going on, some of them are just a little more subtle. My father never shot another living being, never stepped foot in a suit of armour. I murdered thousands on the frontlines and even more out in backwater Colonies. Doesn’t make either of us less guilty."

"You were acting under orders," Kimball says evenly.

"So were the Feds," Carolina retorts. Kimball doesn't have an answer for that one.

"I'm going for a walk," she says, finally. "Go for a run. Please."

Kimball starts walking. Carolina keeps pace. "Being a leader means making sacrifices," she says. "It means you're never fighting for your own safety."

Kimball nods slightly. "I do recognize that. But there are hundreds of opportunities to have me taken out every day, and at some point I have to accept that and keep living my life. Wartime's one thing, but the adrenaline doesn't hold up in the long-term. I need to be able to take these small things for myself if I'm going to keep being an effective leader for my people."

"I don't necessarily agree," Carolina says once they've walked a few hundred meters. "But I recognize where you're coming from."

Kimball's not entirely sure she believes her. "I'm not taking what I see as unnecessary risks," she says. "I honestly think the chances of getting attacked out here are minimal."

"You do know I can just work out when we get back to the city?" Carolina points out.

Kimball hmms curiosity. "Yeah? All the training rooms are booked up until they close at midnight. And I'm pretty sure the only person who actually presents you with a challenge when your sparring is Wash, and he's going to help at the animal shelter tonight."

"He is not getting a cat," Carolina says sharply. And then, "I can train after midnight."

"Nope," says Kimball lightly. "Training rooms close at midnight."

"Vanessa..."

Kimball starts swinging her arms in rhythm with her steps. "I don't make the rules, Carolina."

"You really, really do, actually."

"Hmm."

Carolina blows out a frustrated breath. "Stay on the main road. Leave your radio channel open."

Kimball grins and tries to hide it behind her hair. "Got it."

Carolina flicks one warning glance in her direction and then takes off at a flat sprint. Even without the speed unit operating she's breathtakingly fast, and Kimball watches as she grows smaller and smaller against the road, sunlight glinting off her armour. She turns back before she's out of sight, whips past Kimball in a blur of pounding feet and displaced air and vanishes behind her. Kimball keeps walking, counting each loop that Carolina makes around her. The trees rustle with animal noises and the occasional weak puff of muggy wind. Everything she'd told Carolina is true, but she knows it will take a long while before she is able to walk alone and exposed like this without looking for enemies in the trees or listening for the drone of air strikes. It's a process. She is processing an entire war, and she's willing to take her time. She's starting to believe in time beyond the next few hours, the next reports, the next couple months.

She whistles into her radio when she turns back to get Carolina's attention, and then laughs silently to herself until the rapid pounding of feet draws near. The drive back into the city is quiet, but Kimball's shoulders are looser and her hands don't clench on the steering wheel. Beside her Carolina settles still and relaxed in the passenger seat, booted feet stretched far out in front of her under the dash and head tipped back.

"Good run?" Kimball asks.

"It was," Carolina says.

***

Four days later, Kimball drives them out to an expanse of overgrown fields and dirt lots. Areas zoned for development but pushed aside when the Feds started pouring more money into the war effort. She holds up a smooth black sphere in one hand.

"We're testing equipment today," she says. Carolina watches her intently. "This is, according to Doyle's people, a miniaturized model of there newest camouflage generator. It works on an entirely different principle than the armour enhancements, and it's still pretty unstable. They want to test it outside the lab."

"And where do we come in?" Carolina asks.

"I throw this thing. It apparently starts trying to cloak itself as soon as it's in the air, so it should be harder to track. You go find it. They want tests with the naked eye, then with the various scanners on your helmet's HUD. We keep track of how often the camo is successful, and how long it takes you to find it on each throw."

"Are you sure these are real scientists?" Carolina asks. "That's not going to provide any usable results."

Kimball shrugs. "I don't think they're too concerned with proper procedure. There's not exactly any funding lying around for these sorts of curiosity projects."

Carolina sighs. "Fine. Let's do this."

Kimball throws the sphere as hard and as far as she can. With the assist of her armour, it's pretty far. Carolina takes off as soon as it's gone. Kimball watches the clock. Forty-five seconds for the first run. Twenty. Eighty-three. Forty-seven. Thirty-eight.

On the sixth run, Carolina pauses to stare directly at Kimball. "You're not as subtle as you think you are," she says. Kimball grins innocently, and throws the sphere.

Carolina stares her down for another few seconds, then, with a shake of her head, she takes off after it. Kimball waits, poised to take down the next time on her datapad. In the bright of the sunlight she can see the scratches and dents from years of wear-and-tear, but it still operates smoothly under her fingers. She has only glanced around to check for potential threats three times in the ten minutes that they've been standing here. Carolina is jogging back to her, sphere in hand and a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. She is still taking care of the valuable things.


End file.
